Saturday, March 19, 2011


the abyss
made an impression - wobbly lines in a blender - but
I froze my yoga on account of a wooden leg. It wasn't
my wooden leg,
and what it had stepped in wasn't
dogshit –
it looked kinda
hirsute -

not my swath of WASP in a hammock
Inspector Gadget meets corduroy Haute Cuisine is more
outtake from a faux horror documentary
impacted its contours

piqued my interest

circus contraption squeak
henceforth figuratively a lonely ninja star wheeling above
the trees
corporeally the grimace of a
ventriloquized Vespa

when last did umbrellas have their own religion?
how long have the Ten Commandments been marinating
in diesel?
your intuitions are weird, naked swimming -
me, I was


SHY, man - the pale kid telling the ratchet exactly how much it sucked
the glaucus pallor of my shoulders: from bad to worse
I longed to be in Abortion Heaven deep
in its gauzy considerations
the angels

playing fetch with the nerve cells of a huge ten-toed mole


  1. I think you've blown your chances at being Ralph Lauren's Next Great Poet.

    You are heartbroken, I am sure.

    (wv: aersolde)

  2. thanks for throwing a pall over my whole day with that reminder, Frankie


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